


/choose life

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Re-Animator (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Drug Withdrawal, Flashbacks, Gore, Hallucinations, Homophobia, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape Mentions, Solitary Confinement, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-30 20:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20102911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Following some of Dr. West's three years in solitary confinement. Being alone gives you a lot of time to think about the past.





	/choose life

**Author's Note:**

> uhh i have a drug withdrawal fetish dont @ me
> 
> title is taken from Trainspotting. no idk how long this is gonna actually be, 3 chapters is an estimate

They told him that, normally, the warden didn't mingle much with the scum at all. All except for this.

This max-security dirt pile had some sort of custom, as it were. Every new prisoner got a turn in the mercy seat, of course, without the switch being pulled. Straps and all. The little metal cap that sat on the head, menacing, a cage. He didn't understand why, when most of these men didn't even have any chance of finding themselves in the seat again. You'd have to be either very devoted to deviance or incredibly stupid to receive a death sentence _in_ a max-security dirt pile.

Herbert had always wanted to perform experiments in a place like this. They just stacked up bodies out back like nobody's business. He could've simply stockpiled them in his basement, performing test after test after test until he finally perfected his life's work. If only he'd been on the outside looking in.

The weighty straps on the chair weren't comforting. It made sense, most people in that chair wouldn't remember when they came out of it. They wouldn't get a second chance. That bastard warden made some offhanded quip about how Herbert was much _shorter_ than the average prisoner they got. Far more slight and small. A quip that the animals behind these walls would probably eat him alive, would probably fold him in half in the showers and fuck him until his emotionless facade melted away. ("But you'd probably enjoy that kind of filth, wouldn't you.") Herbert was silent, willing away any hint of any feeling at all on his face.

Herbert asked what happened to his re-agent. The warden shrugged, said something about it getting left behind in the scuffle, and that whatever remained would be disposed of. Mr. Cain was asked if he'd like to be in possession of it, and he flatly said 'no'. Herbert huffed. _That's so very like him._

Finally releasing him from the chair, he was once again cuffed and walked out of the room. The guard to his left looked down at him, grabbing one of his pale arms.

"You a heroin junkie?"

A big finger ran over the miles of track marks. They stung a bit. Herbert answered.

"No, I'm not."

"Oh," The other guard snorted, "so they're just arm freckles, then."

"I never said that." 

He may as well have been a junkie. Damn him. He was weak and stupid, always had been and always would be. The marks were a symbol of that. Initially he'd just done it to keep himself awake, but as it turned out, the re-agent could be _highly_ addictive. Frankly, larger doses on a living person could melt skin clean off of the skull. Herbert never did recreational drugs, he'd never had sex before college, he almost never drank alcohol, he'd hid the tweaker side of himself quite well. Too well, maybe.

So well that almost nobody ever noticed.

* * *

_It's three in the morning. Herbert's fingers are shaking. He's got moist eyes, his stomach curdles like unrefrigerated milk. Weeping sores cover his arms, he sobs out weakly, trying desperately to lodge the needle into the plastic cap of his re-agent._

_He feels sick. The doorknob twists._

_"Don't," he mumbles, "it's my room. It's my room."_

_The lock clicks and a fist pounds on the door._

_"Herbert?" Daniel speaks from the other side. "Herbert, open up."_

_"Stop it." _

_"Are you crying?"_

_Herbert grabs an empty jar, throwing it at the door. It crashes into pieces loudly. The shattered glass hits the floor, the sound echoes in the tiny room and Herbert uncontrollably scratches at the hole-puncher markings on his inner elbow. He screams so loudly it hurts his throat, so loud that it sends throbs into his skull and it's now all-too-obvious that he's been crying. Nothing matters, though, as long as he has peace and quiet._

_"Get the fuck away!"_

_That seems to scare Daniel off. Herbert swears so rarely, every time he does it's a big, big deal. It burns in his chest. He feels terrible. Or maybe that's just nausea._

* * *

The cell was no larger than a horse's stable. It had a bed, a toilet, a shower, and a faucet. That was all.

Herbert was finally uncuffed. The floor was cold, and the sheets had a texture that he just loathed. There was little to do but sleep, or stare at the ceiling. He just wanted some chalk, to mark the days, but he was given nothing. The warden told him he was "intelligent, but ultimately, more worthless scum". He hung onto the 'intelligent' part. Praise made him feel special.

Grey as far as the eye could see. He wished he had some posters, something to look at, anatomical charts or diagrams or _something_. Music to put on, maybe. The silence was deafening, but Herbert would've preferred death over talking to himself. Insanity was in the post, it was on its way. Rage, hallucination, trauma, fear, he knew it would descend on him sooner or later, without him even knowing it had come. 

Daniel. This was Daniel's fault. He gritted his teeth, attempting to force hatred. Daniel Cain. It was his fault. All his fault. With his soft smile, his bedside manner, the way he held Herbert and said "it's alright" like some kind of moron. Nothing was alright. Not a damn thing.

The walls stared at him, not with eyes but with little holes in the cement from which they were built. He wished he could put something up there. But what the fuck would it be?

1\. An anatomical diagram of the human body. A brain split in half, or an image of musculature. Every organ laid out on yellowed paper, little names typed out, titling all the bones and guts and ligaments. Radius and ulna, femur and tibia, tarsals and carpals and phalanges. 

2\. Art. Old art. Vitruvian man, Bosch's _Garden of Earthly Delights_, the works of Egon Schiele. Schiele did a self-portrait while in prison, perhaps Herbert could've made one of his own. But he wouldn't mind having that one. _For my art and for my loved ones, I will persevere_. That seemed oh-so-fitting. Or perhaps a little Monet to chase away the gloominess.

3\. A framed picture of Daniel Cain.

Daniel Cain. It was his fault. He pounded his hands on the walls. He couldn't kill Daniel. It'd hurt too much, even if he reanimated Daniel, it wouldn't be the same. He'd have to sew Daniel together like that girl they made and then watch him fall apart off of his metal wiring. Daniel Cain. Daniel had always made the best pancakes. He said he'd learned to cook for both of them, because Herbert refused to feed himself. Herbert was so slim, Daniel said, that he could snap in half on a windy day.

His back hurt, laying on that rock-slab mattress. The texture of the sheets, just awful. The ceiling mocked him. _Daniel didn't want you anymore. He didn't need you. He had Francesca, and he probably had a family, and real friends. You don't need him, either._

There was a knock on the door. When he sat up, a plate of food had been slid under the floor, with a salt packet and plastic utensils. It looked like shit, Herbert wasn't sure if he could convince himself to stomach it, but withdrawal was just around the corner and it'd be even worse once that started. The Salisbury steak looked like a hockey puck, and felt even worse in his mouth, so he stared at it for awhile instead of consuming any more.

His foster parents had always gotten mad at him for not eating things. _It's food,_ they'd tell him, _there are starving children in Africa, Herbert, do you wish you were one of them? _Their whinging never worked on him, it only frustrated him. If they're so worried about African children, why not just mail their garbage food across the planet instead of wasting it? Daniel was the same way, but in a much more frustrating manner. It made his blood boil, the way that Daniel tried to take care of him. He wasn't a child, if he needed sleep, or a bath, or water, he'd _know_, and he'd _deal with it_, but Daniel didn't believe that one bit.

* * *

_Daniel made pancakes this morning. They sit in front of Herbert with a pat of butter on top, and a drizzle of maple syrup. _

_"I have to get back to work, you know."_

_"Shut up." Daniel replies, boring holes through Herbert's skull with his eyes. "Eat the food."_

_"I'm fine."_

_"Don't make me shove them down your throat, Herb."_

_Herbert shrinks back a bit, and Daniel throws up his hands. "Uh, sorry. I'm just- you know, I'm worried about your... health. And I worked really fucking hard on them, so at the very least just do it for me, alright?" Herbert attempts to reply. His stomach growls and tightens up inside his body._

_"Fine." He grabs the fork he's been given, slicing through the soft pancake stack with it and swallowing the small piece. It's good. It's beyond good, it's unfairly good. He mumbles. "Issh good." Daniel smiles, this bright, sunshiny smile that lights up every room it enters. Herbert's cold, dead heart flutters for just a second. Maybe Daniel's bright, beaming grin is the missing ingredient to the reagent, because it seems to breathe life into Herbert whenever he sees it._

_"Megan got really mad at me yesterday. Well, not REALLY mad, but pretty miffed."_

_"Oh?" Herbert takes another bite. The butter's melting into the syrup and it tastes almost sinful. "Why's that?"_

_"I said she reminds me of Madonna, and I guess she's not a Madonna fan."_

_"Really."_

_"It was supposed to be a compliment. I love Madonna. I love 'Like A Virgin'."_

_"I wouldn't be mad if you- someone- told me I reminded them of Madonna."_

_"Well, nobody would say that." Daniel snickers a bit. "You look nothing like her."_

_"If I did, then what would you think?" Daniel balks at the question, but Herbert is utterly serious. "Nothing else is different, I'm just pretty and voluptuous and blonde, and I'm a material girl. Then what would you think?"_

_"I guess I don't know. That's a really weird question."_

_"I like weird questions."_

_But he hates weird answers._

* * *

People in solitary confinement do get to exercise, but they do it in a lonely cage away from everyone else. Herbert hadn't known this. It was outdoors, the only saving grace, and they were empty for miles around him. 

The withdrawal pains were creeping in. This itching feeling in his head, distant nausea, like marbles had rolled underneath his digestive tract somehow. He didn't want to move, but it was better than his muscles atrophying into wool string. Running back and forth like a hamster, though, was demeaning. He wanted freedom. He wanted nothing but freedom at that very moment. Being a pariah like this, he hated it.

It wasn't the first time he had been, though.

After a few minutes of pacing, suddenly the cage felt all too small. The clutter of his basement lab seemed inviting. Or the overcrowded hoarder's home wherein his foster family resided. Or, Heaven forbid, the algae-colored Sargasso Sea that was his school, every human being within it just as intelligent as oceanic plant life.

For miles, nothing but cages. Empty cages, for big animals. He could fit his arms through it, reach out into the nothingness, but what good would it really do? 

Daniel would always sing when he was bored. His favorite song was _Take Me Home, Country Roads_, but he was also a really big Madonna fan. He had bought Herbert a copy of Thomas Dolby's _Golden Age of Wireless_, which, quote, "seemed like his type of thing". Daniel had always loved that "blinded me with science" song, though it was by far the most inane thing on the record. Bowie was another one, and Iggy Pop as well. Really anything that had a bit of energy to it, he'd listen to.

Herbert quietly backed himself into a corner. He hated singing, his voice was awful and he hated it. And yet, his mouth fell around words.

"Ground control to Major Tom," he was just loud enough to echo around the empty room, "ground control to Major Tom." His voice slowed. He didn't even know the words. "Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong, can you hear me, Major Tom." 

"Shuddup!"

Distantly, one of the guards reprimanded him. 

"But I don't want to." No response. He snorted. "I'm floating in a most a-peculiar way-yuh, and the stars look very diff-er-rent today-ay-ay, for heeeere..."

"West!" The guard spoke again. "If you don't shut up, I'll make you!"

"Well, why should I?" Ignored again. They only spoke to him if they had to. "Not a Bowie fan?" Herbert felt like he was speaking to the air, but he did so anyway. "My old roommate is a Bowie fan, a big one at that. He likes Madonna, too. His favorite song by her is 'Like a Virgin', I think." One of the guards coughed. "I don't listen to a lot of music. I was always too busy working." Footsteps. The coughing guard was approaching. Maybe he should've gone quiet. "Are you going to take me back to my stable?" The guard opened the cage, and promptly cracked Herbert across the face with a nightstick.

It made a loud smacking sound. He hit the floor, shattered glasses hanging off of his face. A few teeth popped out of his slack maw. Suddenly, his mouth went full of blood. At least this could distract him from the creeping sickness. Promptly, he was hoisted up onto his feet and walked back to his cell, leaving blood splatters behind him. 

"You like getting on my nerves," the guard grumbled, "let's see how you like talkin' with a busted jaw."

Herbert knew his jaw wasn't broken. He wasn't stupid. The door shut behind him, and he staggered onto his bed. Suddenly, the stone-hard nap-slab seemed like a regal goose down mattress for him to lay his weary head. A tiny yawn escaped him. Daniel loved his yawns. Called them 'cute'.

_Stop it._

* * *

_Joe told everyone at school that Herbert's gay._

_Herbert should've seen it coming, after testing all sorts of questionable things on him, it was really only fair. His foster siblings shouldn't know, but him and Joe share a room, and it was only a matter of time before he found the pile of sticky fitness magazines Herbert hides under his pillow. He'd even said he would do it. He said, 'I'll tell everyone, and there's nothing you can do to stop me'. He yelled it during lunch._

_Herbert traps himself in a bathroom stall. He's supposed to be in English class, but he can barely even walk the halls. The piercing stares, they bury him in their scrutiny. He's closed the toilet seat, and is sitting on top of it, coloring a frog dissection diagram in with highlighter markers. Being a frog must be easy._

_The frog he'd cut open felt no pain. It was a male. It probably had a good life, a fruitful one. That frog had carried out more in its short froggy life than Herbert can imagine doing in the next twenty years. Maybe, once he becomes a surgical genius, he'll cut his own head open and remove the parts that are queer and retarded. That'd be amazing, he could be just like everyone else. A normal person, a smarter-than-average normal person. A person who looks you in the eyes when you're talking, and has a wife, and two kids. _

_His newspaper clippings stick inside of his notebook, all various studies about the human body and brain. In particular, a piece written by a certain Dr. Gruber about brain death. Of course, if Herbert tells his foster mother he'd like to study death, she would beat his skull into dust._

_There's a knock on the stall door._

_"Herbert? Are you still in there?"_

_It's one of the girls from class. Ginger, or something._

_"What are you doing in the men's room."_

_"Mr. Hooper told me to come find you. He said that if you miss the quiz, you're getting an F, no make-up."_

_"Fine."_

_"Can't you at least come out for my sake, I ran around the whole school trying to find you."_

_"That sounds like _your_ fault." Ginger-or-something 'hmph's and walks away. Herbert quiets down, going back to looking at his clippings, when a drop of water hits one of them. It smears the ink, and sends explosive charges into him. Suddenly, the whole world is ending. He screams bloody murder, from far, deep in his chest. More water droplets fall, and he realizes they're all his, coming from his sad, dark eyes._

_They keep coming until the bell rings._


End file.
